


when you stand beside the ocean

by glitteratiglue



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Motherhood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 01:10:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6931867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteratiglue/pseuds/glitteratiglue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when you stand beside the ocean

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stellations](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellations/gifts).



Deanna drops down heavily onto her office couch.

“Long day?” Beverly inquires, her lips quirking up into a smile.

“You have no idea,” Deanna replies; she tries not to shudder. In the wake of the Borg’s attempts to destroy the Federation, she’s had a steady stream of counselling appointments. For an empath—even one as practised at mental shielding as Deanna is—that can be near-unbearable. The quiet of Beverly’s suite is a much-needed vacation from the grief and terror inside other people’s heads.

Beverly gets to her feet. “How does Valerian root tea sound?” she asks.

“Works for me,” Deanna says sleepily, already curling up into a comfortable position with her feet tucked under her.

“There we go,” Beverly says after a minute, placing two cups on the table in front of them.

Deanna leans forward and cradles the cup in her hands. The fragrant steam rises, its calming, earthy scent filling her nostrils.

“Ensign Ba’Kar lost her mother at Wolf 359,” she says suddenly.

Beverly takes a careful sip of her tea. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I hadn’t heard. Ba'Kar works in Engineering, right?”

Deanna nods; it’s easier than having to look at Beverly right now. “Yes.” She sets her tea on the table and wraps her arms around her knees, hugging them close to her chest.

“What’s on your mind, Deanna?” Beverly asks. The words are blunt but kind — as they always would be, coming from her.

It takes Deanna a minute to answer. “I was just thinking.” She pauses. “My mother. I complain about her, and goodness knows she’s a little much, but if —” The unsaid words hang in the air, heavy with implication. “I don’t call her enough. I should.”

“I know.” Beverly squeezes Deanna's shoulder, gently. “And you should call her. She’s your mother. I worry about Wesley sometimes. He finds it hard on the ship, and maybe I interfere too much with —” she breaks off then, as if worried she’s saying too much, but Deanna is nodding and smiling. “I suppose I’d like to think he would care if something happened to me.”

Something aches in the pit of Deanna’s stomach, but she finds a smile from within herself and offers it to Beverly.

“Of course he would,” she says without hesitation.

Beverly’s answering glance is knowing. She drains the last of her Valerian root tea and pushes Deanna’s still half-full cup towards her.

“Call her. I’m sure she’d love to hear from you.”

And that’s how they end up calling Lwaxana on subspace in the middle of the night. In between the consternation over her appearance ( _“Deanna, darling! That drab grey, with your eyes?”_ ), Lwaxana seems genuinely happy to hear from her daughter.

It makes Beverly feel wistful. She gets up while Deanna is still talking to her mother and goes to find Wesley. He's passed out on the couch in their quarters, a PADD still in his hand.

Smiling fondly, Beverly presses a kiss to the top of his head and carefully pries the PADD from his fingers, laying it on the nearby coffee table.

Wesley works too hard, she finds herself thinking. But then, she's his mother. It shouldn't be a surprise.

* * *

“Beverly.”

“What,” Beverly says, a little petulant. She’s nursing a pounding headache after the whole business with Ronan, not to mention how silly she feels about the situation in general.

After a few calming rounds of synthehol in Ten Forward, they've found their way to Deanna’s quarters and started on the harder stuff. It’s pleasant here: the light panels either side of the couch are emitting a soft orange glow, and the floral arrangements dotted around the living space set off the room nicely. The room is warm, calm — like Deanna herself, Beverly can’t help thinking.

“Nothing,” Deanna replies, but there’s something hidden behind her feigned nonchalance.

Beverly fiddles with the lurid rainbow-coloured throw (most likely a gift from Lwaxana) on her lap and says, “Spit it out.”

“I was just wondering about your mother.” Deanna meets Beverly eyes, a little awkwardly. “I know you don’t like to talk about her.”

Beverly can’t say much to that. “Yeah,” she says slowly. “I said I didn’t remember her, but sometimes I do, more than I say.” She smiles, slightly brittle — but it doesn’t hurt to say this, not after already losing Felicia, when she’s numb and cold regardless.

Deanna, counselor that she is, gives her a minute. She smooths her hair, knocks back the rest of her so-called ‘warp coil’—a bizarre concoction of Aldebaran whiskey and something unnaturally blue—and heads to the replicator to get another one. By the time she’s back, Beverly is composed enough to say more.

“She used to take me to ballet classes,” Beverly says, accepting the drink Deanna passes her. “When we lived in Copernicus City. I can remember some of it. I didn’t like wearing the leotard.” She makes a thoughtful face. "Come to think of it, it's amazing I actually learned to like dancing as an adult."

At that, Deanna grins. “I took years of dance classes on Betazed. Hated it.” Her face softens, becoming more serious. “I suppose I asked you because I was thinking about my father tonight.” She looks down at her glass, at the shimmer dancing on the surface of the blue liquid. “It’s getting harder and harder to remember him, and that makes me feel terrible. I felt happy when he was here—I’ll never forget that—but the rest? It’s a blur.”

“If it helps,” Beverly says, uselessly, “that’s about the only thing I do remember about my mother. I don’t remember a thing about my father.”

Deanna blinks, and takes a sip of her cocktail. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Beverly reaches for her own drink. “I had Felicia, and she was more than most mothers and fathers put together.”

The smile comes back to Deanna’s face, light breaking through storm clouds. “I wish I’d known her.”

“She would have loved you.”

Beverly holds up her glass to Deanna’s, and they clink their drinks together. It’s a small, hollow comfort, but sometimes that's all you need.

* * *

Deanna opens her eyes, realising a blanket’s been tucked around her shoulders. She shifts in the armchair, stiff and uncomfortable, and wonders how long she’s been there.

In the darkness of the room, Beverly's face swims into view. “Okay there?” she asks, soft.

Deanna nods, and replies muzzily, “I'm fine. Wait. Tasha, is she —” she starts to say, trying to get up, but Beverly is already easing her back into the chair with a gentle hand pressed to her arm. She’s _so_ tired, beyond exhaustion, like the heaviest metal in the universe has lodged itself in her body.

In these half-moments between sleep and waking, Deanna sometimes forgets she is a mother now.

“She’s fine,” Beverly whispers, and Deanna looks up to see her daughter settled contentedly in Beverly’s arms, very much asleep.

“Sorry,” Deanna says, rubbing at her eyes. “You were here for a visit, and I’m terrible company.”

“Hush,” Beverly retorts, and the expression on her face is downright determined; clearly, she won’t be argued with. “It’s hard being a new mother. I remember. Why do you think I came?”

She settles into the chair beside Deanna.

“Thank you,” Deanna says. She pulls the blanket closer around her: it _is_ comfortable, and warm, and Will is sitting a long night shift on the bridge as Captain. Maybe she’ll sleep a little longer. “I don’t feel like I’m great at this. Will’s easier with her. He makes her laugh. With me, she just stares up at me with those big eyes. I don't know what she's thinking.”

“You’re her mother,” Beverly says sagely. “Not to mention she's a quarter Betazoid. I think she doesn’t need to say anything at at all.” As if to illustrate her point, she carefully hands the baby over to Deanna.

Tasha stirs, making a small noise, and snuggles into her mother’s warmth. Deanna's eyes are already threatening to close again, but she looks down at her daughter—her scrunched-up little fists, the strange fierceness of her features even in sleep—and smiles, tired but content.


End file.
